Whisper
by Nnarect
Summary: Thus comes the new age, the light reborn, the peace risen from chaos. The last foe of the riders is vanquished, but whispers are foul things and even dragons cower in fear of a long dead king. Souls themselves know not to speak of it. But even riders make mistakes, even riders forget. Even riders can be killed...


The breeze whispered through the trees as the noonday sun bore down upon a small hut, situated upon a clearing, above a face of white cliffs. Several leaves flew loose of their branches and spiraled through the air past a square of compacted earth, over the small wooden table and lone chair where a pot of scalding tea sat cooling, and over the drop, gently meandering toward the forest hundreds of feet below them. The black haired elf seemed not to notice as a leaf clung to her forehead, a hostage of the unwavering wind, as she stared at the slate tablet in front of her. The wind died down for a moment, giving a single moment of reprieve, before it finally swept the leaf off her brow revealing a diadem resting lightly upon her head; a single teardrop shaped diamond hung, glinting and sending beams of light sparkling in every direction, lighting up a seemingly random multitude of points. The breeze once again fell as she clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth ever so slightly. Holding the slate, she made up her mind and held it an arms length away from herself as she muttered in the language of her people, "Let that which I see with my mind's eye be replicated on the surface of this tablet". It was only a whisper of breath on the wind, but as the cool slate morphed into a cacophony of vibrant colors under her hand, the drop in her strength was noticeable, if slight. Once the tablet began to settle, an image slowly became clearer and clearer until a beautiful scene lay before her. A young man with a blue sword at his side stood gazing over the banks of a river, his dark hair freshly combed and his angled face without a trace of a beard, as two specks, one a dark forest green whilst the other a dazzling saphire blue, circled each other in a graceful dance. It was nearly perfect, but if one looked closely enough they could see the slight haze around objects and how some small details of the man's face were altered, if only a little. The soft skin of her mouth set itself in a grimace as she stared at the lifelike fairth she held in her hands. An ache washed over her, settling deep within her chest and her hands began shaking as she stared. Finally, when she could bear it no longer, she cast out her mind, confirming no living soul was near enough to see her usual calm façade break, before turning and flinging the tablet over the Crags of Tel'naeír. It sailed through the air before slowly disappearing behind the cliff as it began its descent to the ground. Gripping tightly the hilt of Támerlein, she struggled to still her being and regain composure. Her free fist she balled tightly, digging her nails into the soft skin of her palm and drawing blood in an attempt to force herself to concentrate upon something other than _him_. She lifted her hand to her eyes, where she was met with four small gashes in the gedwëy ignasia, which throbbed painfully. She waited, but the ache did not dull; as it hadn't for years now, as it hadn't since _he_ had left, and it stung worse than any other pain.

 _Little one..._

A presence touched her mind, deep and knowing. She barely noticed as the great green dragon rose over the steep cliff face and landed a few feet from her. He had more than doubled in size from in the time since Eragon had left, and his green scales sparkled in the light like so many emeralds. Arcing his neck, he opened his jaws and let a slimy fairth drop to the ground in front of her, once again revealing the beautiful image. Quickly, Arya averted her eyes, staring straight ahead towards the hut, beginning once again to tremble.

"It hurts..." She said, her voice cracking ever so slightly.

 _Indeed, a broken heart often does, but we are not the masters of fate. They have left Alagäesia, never to return; all the wishing in the world could not help them betray their own destinies. Besides, I believe we four have more pressing concerns._

"Indeed we do," Arya sighed, slowly walking over and pouring herself a cup of tea before sitting down at the small table. "How am I to tell Eragon this?" She asked, resting her elbows on the table and putting her head in her hands.

 _If he has not figured it out already, you mean. It has been fifteen years, and he is no simpleton. We must ask for more. None of us likes the idea, yet we must submit to it. He will, of course, decline unless the concept is introduced at the proper time. For instance, if you write a letter, as you do every so often, I believe he will be privy to the idea. You inquire upon his training, the elves, and when the time is right, the eggs. He will understand, for it is no one's fault. They simply haven't found the right partners yet._

"Then what are we to do with the two we already have? They have not chosen, and yet we can't leave them to stay in their shells, else they grow strange. We can't just keep switching them between the urgals and dwarves," Arya groaned, sipping from her porcelain cup.

 _Then we have them ferried among the other two-legs. Your and his races._

Arya had considered the possibility before, however, with such instability now that the riders weren't technically yet reformed, she had hoped to prevent any sort of event that could spell another war.

"But then we risk offending two separate races in taking away their eggs. Eragon promised them riders, and to have that hope taken from them may very well plunge Alagäesia into chaos once more," She told him, rubbing her temples.

 _Then as we take one from each race, we give two back._

The thought gave her pause. Taking the eggs from the urgals and dwarves and giving them to the humans and elves, then giving two eggs to both the dwarves and urgals. It would be yet another risk asking four of Eragon, yet to prevent war from stirring, eggs would have to hatch for both races. She sat and thought, contemplating every situation and outcome, every variable, problem, and solution. She mulled the thought over dinner and another pot of tea until the sun was low on the horizon and the breeze was still before finally answering him.

"Yes, I believe that may be our best option, if not our only." She stood from the chair and walked over to where Fírnen was lying curled up on the ground, basking in the dying rays of the golden sun, and placed her hand with its silvery gedwëy ignasia to his nose.

 _Why do dragons have to be so picky with whom they chose to partner with? After all, they're only becoming partners for life, it's not anything serious._

She jokingly cast her thoughts into the great dragon's mind. He made the odd choking sound that signaled his amusement before lowering his head to the ground and gazing at her with a single, gem-like eye.

 _You had best get to work. You're going to be busy for a long while if you wait any longer to put our plan into action. You have a letter to write and rulers to contact, and sleep is important to us both._

 _Very well, you sleep, and I shall work until the moon is risen._

 _As you wish. Sleep well, little one._

And with that, the great dragon closed his mind to her, and shut his massive eye. Walking back to the table, she finished her tea and made her way into the hut, fetching the finest parchment she owned. She drew her swan-feather quill from the ink well and rested it above the parchment, debating the exact wording she was to use. Just as she was about to begin writing the flowing elegant glyphs of the ancient language, she heard a flapping of wings as the white raven, Blagden, glided down to her table and landing beside her.

"Wyrda!" He shrieked, ruffling his feathers. Since her mother's death in the siege of Uru'baen, Blagden had rarely been seen off of his perch next to the throne, spouting nonsense all day. Reaching over, Arya rubbed his head with one of her fingers before turning back to her paper.

"Black whispers dance in scores,

Away from the wars and bores of living lords,

The sky and the trees break the peaks,

And light below razes and creaks.

Beware the Soothsayer, for she speaks without speaking," The raven spoke, his eyes boring into her. Arya was stunned silent for a moment as the raven gazed at her with glossy black eyes.

"Blagden, what do you-"

"Wyrda!" He shrieked once more, as he leapt off the edge of the table and, with a few quick flaps, disappeared into the trees in the direction of Tialdarí Hall. Arya listened to him depart until she heard him no more over the sounds of the forest, before asking aloud: "What could he have meant by that?" Fírnen replied by opening his mind to hers.

 _I haven't the slightest clue, however he deemed it necessary enough to relay to us and thus we should consider it with great care. In your writings, ask if Eragon can make any sense of it, as I believe he told you he has dealt with the white-trickster-raven's ploys before._

Arya thought for a moment.

"No, it would be too risky to put such potentially dangerous information in a letter. Instead I shall include within the letter a time during which to speak to me through scrying. I shall also write one to each of the other rulers of the land so they may all give their collective inputs at the same time," She explained.

 _Will multiple scry-conversations on one mirror work? It seems something one would read as a failed magical experiment that killed everyone involved._

Arya ran over a list of words in the ancient language and different combinations therein for several minutes until she found a suitable match for the spell she had envisioned.

"I believe I can make it work without causing too much of a problem. Besides, I'll have you here to help me in case anything might go wrong," She said, smiling at him.

 _Indeed..._

 _The air cracked and sputtered as a hooded man walked through icy streets of ruined buildings and markets, his metal staff clinking every second or two on the rubble of cobblestones. Wooden carts lay rotting, exactly where the shopkeepers had left them in their struggle to flee. The sandstone buildings had all cracked and caved in on themselves from all the years spent uninhabited, except for a lucky few the man passed only every once in a while. Before him, the street began to curve upward, following the hill it lay on until it reached a large, crumbling, sandstone wall with a dented, rusty gate that stood ajar, icicles jutting from it like teeth. Beyond lay the neglected ruins of a large castle, covered in black iron turrets and spires. That was when he saw them. From within one of the open doorways of a collapsed building, a pair of glowing yellow eyes glared out at him, wide eyed. The hooded man paused a moment, before beginning to laugh maniacally, throwing his head back so that a lock of crimson hair flashed outside of the hood before once more disappearing behind the black veil._

 _"You..." The voice was filled with madness and hatred, "you always were a sly old codger weren't you? Tell me then, where has your bloody speculation gotten you? I'll tell you where, it's gotten you right where you deserve, and right where I need you." The man cackled again, then lifted his hand to the sky as black lightning struck the house, exploding molten sandstone and shattered ice crystals in every direction with a deafening shockwave of sound._

Eragon woke with a start, jerking up so violently that the blood drained from his head and left the world spinning circles around him. It took 10 minutes of sitting in his bed and nearly losing his dinner from the previous night before the dizzy spell finally subsided, leaving him with a throbbing head ache. As part of his pain began to seep through their connection, Saphira roused herself and lifted her head and barred her teeth, staring at Eragon.

 _What's happened? Are you alright little one?_

 _Fine, simply sat up too quickly, gave myself a headache._

Muttering a few words in the ancient language to stop the headache, Eragon swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching his arms above his head.

 _What is it? Have you had a night terror?_

Eragon quickly shared with her the memory of his dream from the night before.

 _I believe it may have been a prescient dream, as the few I've had in the past._

 _Indeed, it may have been, but for obvious reasons I would hope otherwise. The man in your dream had the same hair as Durza and Varaug did. Thus there is undeniably a possibility that he may be a shade, and if that is the case then I believe we may have bigger problems in our future than previously anticipated._

 _Indeed..._

Eragon thought for a minute, running his hand through his hair before deciding on a course of action.

 _Perhaps we should consult the Eldunari on the matter. I didn't recognize the location, so perhaps it would be wise to see if any of them could identify it._

 _Yes, they might know of your vision, however there are still multiple Eldunari who have not yet recovered from their treatment at Galbatorix's hand. They undoubtedly are full in helping with the treatment of the minds of those gone mad. They would answer us, yet it wouldn't be right of us to ask them before exhausting all other resources_

Stretching her wings out, Saphira yawned, sparking a small blue flame from her mouth.

 _Now, shall we fly? Perhaps we can stop and visit the elves. They may have the answers you yet seek._

Eragon grinned. Walking over to the wall, Eragon peeled back the large strip of fabric that was attached to the wall, much like the elves houses in Ellesméra and took the saddle Oromis had given him down from a hook in the wall. After attaching the saddle and strapping his legs down, Saphira leaped from the opening and plunged down several hundred feet before opening her wings, giving Eragon a beautiful view.

After Eragon and the elves had sailed off from Hedarth, they had sailed for leagues among fertile plains before finally reaching a small mountain range much like the Spine. It's mountains weren't too tall to for Saphira, or any other dragon for that matter, to climb over. Yet they also weren't high enough for the dragons and their riders to rest safely and comfortably on, so they were counted out as a possible locale for the new rider's home. The river they had been sailing on rushed right between the two tallest peaks of the mountain range, leaving two sheer cliffs facing each other. As the range had disappeared behind them, Eragon, after much consulting and consideration, had declared them Du Fells Yawë. The Mountains of Trust.

From there, they continued sailing east across the luscious plains, documenting and recording, until the Beor mountains loomed on the horizon. Somewhere in the south they had turned northward, preventing further exploration.

The river ran into a large open valley, where the tree speckled mountains seemed to part into a large arc on both sides, creating a flat grassland multiple leagues across. On the far side of the valley, the river ran out of a lake, it's tributaries finally disappearing into the mountains, and there sat the mountain he had been looking for.

It rose several thousand feet off the ground in a wall of rock before abruptly leveling off into a large plateau before continuing skyward to it's summit. There, with the help of the Elves and Eldunari, he had raised a castle.

The castle itself rose out of the rock and towered just below the level where breathing became difficult. It had no ground entrance, meaning it was impossible to reach without being a dragon rider or magician, and most rooms were large enough to comfortably fit Shruikan and more. It towered on the mountain, it's tall spires and open turrets shimmering rainbows.

Once he had taken up all room on the plateau, Eragon had had no choice but to tunnel down into the mountain, where all the rider's rooms were located. Each room was large and consisted of: a large pad for their dragon, a bed, a desk with paper and utensils, both kinds of saddles for their dragon, a large opening in the mountain for dragons to come and go as they please, and in another small room a tub and mirror for washing and shaving.

As Eragon clung to Saphira, he gazed out at the sun rising between the mountains, the river sparkling into the distance and leaving him breathless with its beauty. Angling herself toward the northern border of mountains, Saphira began slowly descending toward a densely forested area near the base of two mountains. There, the elves had coaxed the trees to grow, and had since sung them into houses. As Saphira landed, Blödhgarm ran up to greet them, the other elves near the edge bowing their heads and whispering in the ancient language before returning to their tasks. As he approached, they spoke the necessary formalities.

"Do you require our aid, Shadeslayer, Brightscales?" He inquired in the Ancient Language.

"That can wait, at least for now. I would like to proceed with the fourth level of Rimgar before we begin on such a note. My problems can be put off until then," Eragon responded with a smile, sliding from his saddle.

Since their arrival in the valley, Blödhgarm had been instructing him in the Rimgar, along with the various words of the ancient language. The eldunari had also been great teachers in multiple respects, teaching Eragon and Saphira much in nearly every subject imaginable. Memories upon memories, teachings over hours and hours, thousands of minds with millions of pieces of information.

As Eragon twisted and stretched through the hundreds of poses and movements, he couldn't help but ponder over his dream from the night before. The hooded man with scarlet hair, the sandy landscape, the destroyed city, the yellow eyed man. It didn't fit together with any memories he had, his own or otherwise. Abruptly, Blödhgarm stopped him.

"Shadeslayer, what troubles you? Your interest appears farther off than it has been in recent days," Blödhgarm inquired. Eragon glanced away, slightly embarrassed over his lack of control.

"I had a dream last night, and we can't quite decipher its meaning. We thought it better to ask you before the Eldunari," Eragon explained. Opening his mind, Eragon cast his thoughts toward Blödhgarm, showing him the memory of the dream, "Blödhgarm, you wouldn't happen to know where that might be, would you? None of our memories show anything ascertaining to that sort of architecture or location and we were loathe to disturb the Eldunari before first inquiring with you."

Blödhgarm closed his eyes for a moment before shaking his head. "Alas, I'm sorry to disappoint you Shadeslayer, but I simply cannot recall any place with such a queer appearance as that," Blödhgarm replied. "Regardless, you can't train in this state.

Eragon nearly swore. He would have to send word to Ellesméra to ask if they had any records of such a place. He had already begun to formulate a letter when a soft blue glow washed over him, before disappearing as swiftly as it had come, leaving only a piece of folded parchment on the ground before him.


End file.
